


the emptiness of dark space

by harrigan



Series: J2!BSG [3]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Supernatural RPF
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, M/M, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrigan/pseuds/harrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crisis over, it's time to escort the refugees off Galactica and onto civilian ships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the emptiness of dark space

**Author's Note:**

> For the _moving_ square on my hc_bingo card. 
> 
> The J2!BSG series is a fusion with the reimagined TV series Battlestar Galactica. This is the 3rd story, set leading into BSG episode 1.02 'Water'.

> _Battlestar Galactica hangar bay: Funeral Service for the crewmen and women who lost their lives in the Cylon attack. “Are they the lucky ones? That's what you're thinking, isn't it? We're a long way from home. We've jumped way beyond the Red Line, into uncharted space. Limited supplies, limited fuel. No allies, and now, no hope? Maybe it would have been better for us to have died quickly, back on the Colonies with our families, instead of dying out here slowly, in the emptiness of dark space. Where shall we go? What shall we do?” – Commander William Adama_

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Jackles.”

Jensen skidded to a halt outside the pilot ready room. You didn’t just blow past the new Commander Air Group when he was talking to you, even if Captain Lee Adama (call sign “Apollo”) didn’t stand on the formality of expecting salutes from his subordinates.

“Sir?” Jensen turned toward him, after casting a reluctant glance back down the corridor. That way led to the disabled hangar deck where the stranded civilians had been forced to make camp. The urge to check on their welfare—to check on someone in particular—tugged at him, and he rocked on the balls of his feet, impatient.

 _Get a grip, Jackles_ , he told himself. _You’re a Viper pilot, not a horny teenager._ Besides, there was nothing he could do for the refugees now. They were either safe, or… it was too late to do anything about it. Surrendering to that ingrained, military sense of duty, he shook his head and followed Apollo inside. 

A quick scan of the posted duty roster brought him up short. “Frak! Did I—how could—?” Was it possible he’d slept right through his shift? 

“You’ve been dead to the world for more than a day.” Apollo seemed amused, maybe even a little impressed with his pilot’s ability to remain unconscious so long. “Doc Cottle said to let you sleep as much as you needed, if I didn’t want you passed out in the cockpit the next time you went up.” He fought back a yawn himself, chiseled cheeks still in need of a shave, and Jensen wondered if Cottle had prescribed the same rack-time for the CAG. Still, Apollo didn’t look quite as haggard as they all had over the past few sleepless days and nights. 

“No sign of the Cylons. It’s still quiet, so far,” Apollo reassured him, and Jensen remembered that first long, tenuous moment of silence after five days of unrelenting combat. Five days of alarms blaring every 33 minutes, announcing the sudden appearance of the Cylon base star that hunted them like a predator. The Cylon Raiders attacking and the Vipers fighting them off while the fleet powered up their Faster-Than-Light drives and escaped. And every 33 minutes, the klaxon sounded again. The Cylons had found them. 

Until the time they didn’t. 

Jensen had been sitting in the cockpit of his Viper in the launch tube, thrumming with adrenaline while the LSO completed the interval check to clear him for take-off the moment the siren went off. But then minute 33 had ticked over to minute 34. To 35. 

Silence had fallen, almost tangible, strained, like the ship itself was holding its breath.

The Viper was pushed back to the hangar deck, and when Jensen climbed out, he was so wrecked from lack of sleep that he’d needed help getting down the boarding ladder. In the surprising lull, the CAG had ordered him to his rack, and Jensen barely remembered how he got there. 

Now it was a day later. And still quiet. But not the same as that moment of tense, fragile stillness, when the Cylons... stopped. No, this was the soft, comforting hum of machinery, the padding of feet moving unhurried through the hallways, the routine communications over the intercom that you learned to tune out like static if you didn’t hear your name or a call to action stations. Normal. 

It seemed like peace had maybe settled over the Galactica, and Jensen had slept through it.

“What’s the alert status?” he asked. “Condition two?” 

Apollo nodded, “Routine CAP. For now.” He took up a marker and turned to the dry erase board to update the duty schedule. 

Jensen scanned the names on the board. Something didn’t add up. “What about the Raptors?” he asked. If they only needed three Vipers out on the Combat Air Patrol, what were the Raptors doing? Several of them showed launch times and no return times posted yet. 

“Finally getting the survivors out of Camp Oil Slick and onto civilian vessels,” the captain told him, adding his own name to the next rotation. “Too bad there wasn’t time to get them out sooner.” He looked back over his shoulder. “You ready to take a shift on the CAP after you get some food in you?”

“Sure...” Do-your-duty instinct triggered the answer, but Jensen’s thoughts tripped over Apollo’s words. _The survivors?_ Apollo must have meant the civilians who’d survived the initial Cylon attack on their home worlds, almost a week earlier. Right? Not...

The commands over the intercom that he’d been ignoring suddenly caught his attention. _DC party to the starboard hangar bay_. And that meant... “Damage Control to Camp Oil Slick?” Jensen took an impulsive step toward the exit, trying to remember where the Cylons’ missiles had gotten past the Vipers and struck the hull of the Galactica. “Did we take a hit where the refugees were camped?” 

Apollo held up a hand to keep Jensen rooted to the floor. “No civilian casualties on Galactica,” he assured him. “Sure, they took some damage. Frak, the whole ship did. The refugee camp lost all their heat and power a couple days ago. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if they’d bother trying to get them back on now, or just get the refugees off the ship. But it sounds like the Chief’s got them in the rotation for repairs after all.” 

“Good. That’s good.” Jensen exhaled slowly. “So where are the civilians going? What happens to them now?”

Apollo gave a short mirthless laugh. “You know why President Roslin wasn’t in the capital when the Cylons launched that first surprise attack?”

Jensen wasn't sure what that had to do with his idle question—at least he hoped it had sounded idle. But he figured he’d go along with the captain’s line of reasoning and it would probably lead to an answer eventually. 

He did know that when the Cylons had nuked the Twelve Colonies, President Adar and all the top Cabinet members had been… well, it was said that all that remained of them were shadows burned into the walls. Laura Roslin, the Secretary of Education, hadn’t been with them on Caprica, though. Jensen didn’t know why. What he’d heard was that she was apparently forty-seventh in line of succession, and no one above her had survived. There’d been quite a buzz when a school teacher was sworn in as the new president. For himself, Jensen figured he’d follow Commander Adama’s lead. As long as the Old Man treated her with the respect due her office, then he wasn’t going to sweat it.

“She was here. She’d come onboard with a whole team of educators,” Apollo explained, “to witness the decommissioning of the Galactica and the ceremony to convert it to a museum.” He gave a tiny shake of his head, as if he couldn’t believe that the antiquated-and-nearly-retired battle star was now all that stood between the Cylons and the extinction of the human race. “Now we’ve got a bunch of education specialists stuck with her on Colonial One. So President Roslin’s appointed them a task force to come up with aptitude tests to place all the civilians in the best jobs for their skills and temperament. You know, we’ve got close to 50,000 people to put to work in the fleet, regardless of what they did for a living on the Twelve Colonies.” He turned back to update the _Jackles_ entry on the roster. “You can imagine. We need people to build and staff recycling plants now. We don’t need cake decorators...” 

_Or hookers_ , Jensen thought. Unexpected disappointment hit him like a G-force, pulling his shoulders down, making his limbs feel like lead. He knew Jared was going to disappear, along with the other refugees. Frak, he _wanted_ Jared on one of the civilian ships that would get to jump to safety at the first DRADIS contact with the enemy. It must be the lingering stress from everything that had happened, he told himself, the exhaustion of the last few days, which made him feel like he was losing one more thing, when he really had nothing left to give.

Apollo finished writing on the board and glanced at his watch. “Doc Cottle gave a couple other pilots the same pass. Guess I’ll check on those slackers; make sure they’re really catching up on their beauty rest.” He gave Jensen a knowing look and Jensen knew the CAG wouldn’t be surprised if Boomer had snuck off with Chief Tyrol for a little R&R instead of reporting for duty. For being new on Galactica, he’d caught on quick.

“Oh—” Apollo added as Jensen turned to leave. “I almost forgot. You asked which ships the refugees were being assigned to.” Jensen stopped in mid-stride. “Depends on what job they’re matched with. The first wave of civilians is already gone; being shuttled to their new homes as we speak. But the rest are still waiting the outcome of their assessments.” Another deliberate look. “They’re still at Camp Oil Slick.”

_Damn. The CAG really did know the pilots under his command._

* * *

Jensen didn’t stop to analyze what he was hoping to accomplish by seeking out Jared. To satisfy his curiosity on where an ex-hooker with the body of Adonis would end up best serving the fleet? To share a goodbye-and-good-luck frak? He just knew that he wanted to see him one last time.

Problem was, Jared didn’t seem to be in the refugee camp. 

Jensen stepped through the hatch, gratified to see that the lighting was apparently restored, but the sudden drop in temperature raised goose bumps on his bare arms. The hangar deck was much less crowded than the last time Jensen had seen it. Most of the remaining refugees were huddled in coarse, military-issue blankets, making it difficult to tell one person from another.

He was pretty sure Jared would have been one of the men moving up and down the aisles to keep warm, though. And none of those individuals stood head-and-shoulders above the rest. 

He must have missed his chance. Jared had probably been on one of the first Raptors off the Galactica. Jensen was pretty sure a botanical cruiser had survived the Cylon attacks and was part of the fleet. That would be a logical place for someone who’d grown up on a farm, so they might have placed him pretty quickly. 

Not a ship a Viper pilot would have much reason to visit, though. Then again, Jensen wouldn’t have much of an excuse to travel to any of the civilian ships. 

“Sir?” As he turned to leave, a young-looking girl with wide-set blue eyes stopped him with a tentative hand on his arm. “Are you here with our assignments?” She clutched a large, worn handbag to her chest as if it contained everything she owned. 

Jensen shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

“But—you’re a pilot, right?” She frowned. “Why else would a pilot come down here unless it was time to take us to a Raptor?”

He took one last look around the deck, knowing it was hopeless but unable to stop himself. “I’m looking for someone,” he admitted. “Tall guy. Jared…?” He realized he didn’t even know Jared’s last name.

The girl nodded, tilting her head toward the overhead lights before hunching back down with a shiver. “One of the guys in the camp—he gave up waiting for the crew to come help. He was tall; taller than anyone else here, I guess. Said he used to fix stuff all the time when it broke down on his farm. So he worked on the electricals and did something and got them running again. I think his name was Jared.” She perked up, remembering something else. “He was nice to my Gram. She’s been really scared since the war started. He told her he’d fix the lights so she could read her prayer book. He had dimples when he smiled at her.” 

_That had to be Jared. But..._ “Do you know if… if he already left on one of the Raptors?”

She shook her head. “He gave Gram his jacket to wear. See?” Jensen looked over her shoulder and saw a frail woman curled on a cot behind them, rocking back and forth slightly as her fingers moved over her prayer beads. A blanket covered her legs and lap, and a man’s jacket practically swallowed her up. “Gram made him promise to come back for it when the heat comes on,” she finished, crossing her heart solemnly.

Jensen’s expression softened at the childlike gesture. “Do you know where he went?”

“Some guy in an orange uniform— I think the crew called him ‘Chief’— finally came to see what repairs we needed. And we told him that guy, Jared? Had already jury-rigged something for the lights. Then Jared came over and asked him if there was anything he could do to help. I didn’t hear what else they said, but the Chief looked him up and down and then put some other crew guy and girl to work on the heating, and he and Jared left. I don’t guess I know anything more than that.”

For a crazy moment, Jensen imagined someone giving Jared a lingering, appreciative once-over and deciding exactly what service he could provide. He shook it off— the Chief was nuts about Boomer. Maybe they didn’t have enough ladders to go around and needed someone tall enough to access the ceiling panels. 

It didn’t do any good to speculate. But he did know where to look for Chief Tyrol. Jensen thanked the girl and nodded to her grandmother, assuring them that the heat would be on in no time, and that soon they’d be on their way to a ship with better conditions. Then he spun around and headed for the starboard flight pod.

* * *

Approaching the landing bay from the hangar deck, he heard the Chief before he saw him, barking a lecture to someone who’d apparently never seen the inside of a functional flight pod. “Hangar deck, repair alcoves, launch tubes, landing bay.” Jensen could imagine Tyrol sweeping his arm out in a wide arc as he identified the major areas.

“Take a look at that floor. You know what does that?” The Chief didn’t wait for an answer. “Combat landings. Those Vipers are out there protecting you, keeping the Cylons occupied until every frakkin’ one of the civilian ships jumps to safety. And you know they’re outnumbered. Badly. So the _second_ the fleet is secure, we’re spinning up the FTL drive, and those birds _have_ to get back on board ASAP, so we can make the jump before we take on too much damage to get away.” 

Jensen stopped in his tracks. The Chief was describing his nightmare all over again, the Galactica retracting the flight pods under heavy fire, and Jensen’s Viper slamming too late into the ship’s hull.

Chief Tyrol went on. “On a normal CAP—that’s Combat Air Patrol to you, kid—the pilots use their maneuvering thrusters to slow and settle over the platform, one-by-one, and the Viper’s magnetic gear locks onto it and brings it to a stop. But combat landings? What we just went through, for five straight days? It’s multiple Vipers swooping in all at once. At high speed. Some of them damaged, and all of them skidding across the platform, trying not to crash into each other, and hoping the friction will slow them down enough to stop.”

There was the sound of something heavy being dropped on the platform.

“Here. You look like a strong guy. If you wanna help, take this sledge hammer and see if you can knock out the divots those combat landings caused, before they wreck the undercarriage on any more Vipers.”

“Aye aye, sir!” 

Jensen knew that voice. Before he could take another step, a bone-jarring clang echoed through the bay, and quickly fell into a steady rhythm.

The Chief emerged and held up a hand when Jensen tried to move past him. “Hold it right there, Jackles. You’re not gonna interrupt my volunteer.”

“I just wanna—” Wanted what? To see for himself that Jared was okay? To escape the pressure of protecting the fleet for just one night? He didn't get a chance to work out his answer.

“Don’t even think about it.” Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol may have been just an enlisted man, while Jensen was a lieutenant, but as Senior Damage Control Officer, he never let a little thing like rank stop him from speaking his mind. “If you don’t want to hit the platform nose first on your next patrol, Jackles, you let him finish.” He paused, eyes dark and intense, then added roughly, “You know how shorthanded we are.” 

Jensen understood. He remembered another hangar deck, a lot like this one, that had become a makeshift morgue for eighty-five members of the deck crew just a week ago. When the Cylons hit the port flight pod with nukes, it had been the Chief who’d given the orders to seal off and vent those bulkheads to stop the fires from reaching the fuel lines. Knowing the men and women on his watch would be lost. 

That hangar bay had held the funeral service for the crew too. It was where Commander Adama had made the stunning announcement to everyone assembled that they weren’t the last remnants of human kind, that there was a thirteenth colony in a distant solar system: a place that could be a refuge from the Cylons. _“It won't be an easy journey. It'll be long, and arduous. But I promise you one thing: on the memory of those lying here before you, we shall find it, and Earth shall become our new home.”_

Jensen wasn’t sure if he really believed the Old Man. Sometimes, during the five days of constant attack, when his hands shook and he was on the verge of collapse, he’d just wanted to give up. But then, he’d remember Jared. And think— _that’s_ worth fighting for. He didn’t know what kind of future he might be facing. If it was just more relentless strain and exhaustion and loss. But if Jared was stationed on a botanical cruiser, then every moment spent guarding the civilian fleet while they jumped to safety… well, he figured it was good to have something worth dying for.

Did Jensen believe they’d actually find a refuge one day? A planet? Or that Jared would even remember him after months or years on separate ships? 

No. But right now, he was willing to settle for having tonight.

“Okay, you win. Could you just tell Jared to come find me when I get back from flying CAP tonight? Twenty-two hundred hours?”

The Chief composed his face and nodded. “Where?”

A spot of color warmed Jensen’s cheeks. “He knows where.”

Chief raised an eyebrow, but really, who was he to judge. He and Boomer were always disappearing to “discuss the state of the nav con modules” in maintenance closets!

* * *

The heavy door to the pilots’ duty locker spun open, and Starbuck ducked inside with a sly grin. “Look who I found lurking around.”

Jared shadowed her, looking sheepish. “I didn’t know the right protocol. It’s not like you have a doorbell.”

Jensen grinned. Sheepish was a good look on Jared. He also looked freshly showered and shaved, hair still damp where it curled on the nape of his neck… that was a good look too. Still, Jensen had sort of been hoping that Jared would be all glistening with sweat and in need of washing up, and this time, he’d let Jensen show him around the facilities. 

Good thing Jensen had a Plan B. “C’mon.” He tugged Jared’s hand and led the way into the corridor, away from Starbuck’s knowing smirk. It was a long walk to the bow of the ship, but they fell into step easily, shoulder to shoulder. Jensen asked about the aptitude tests and was surprised to learn that besides academic knowledge (Jared wrinkled his nose in frustration at that one), they measured things like spatial intelligence, personality, and even physical traits like manual dexterity and strength. 

Of course, Jared said with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he’d been asked about his work experience too. Jensen imagined a prim and proper schoolteacher conducting the interview, getting more and more flustered. 

He grinned, but then grew serious. “Are you worried where you’ll end up?”

Jared shook his head. “Nah. I’ve learned to cope with pretty much whatever falls my way. Don’t have expectations, and you won’t be disappointed. That’s the secret.”

 _Is that the same thing as ‘don’t have hope’?_ Jensen was wrestling with his own demons, and the effort to persevere in spite of a gnawing hopelessness. But it wasn’t the sort of thing he could talk about with someone who, if he was honest, was just a frak-buddy he’d known less than a week.

“What about you?” Jared went on. “Did you always want to be a Viper pilot? Is there anything else you can see yourself doing?”

Jensen’s mouth quirked up. Maybe he was struggling with hope. But escapist fantasy? It was worth a try. “I’d… restore classic cars.” 

Jared’s delighted grin lit up his face, but before he could question Jensen further, they turned a corner and came to a stop at the end of a short line of people. Of couples, to be honest. Mostly young men and women, holding hands. A couple of men with men. One woman with another woman.

Jared noticed. “What is this?”

“It’s the observation deck.” It was Jensen’s turn to look sheepish. “You probably caught on that there aren’t any windows on the Galactica—wouldn’t be very practical when you’re under fire. But we do have this one window, here. It’s got retractable armored plates.”

The line moved forward. An official was holding the door open, ushering out couples whose turns were up and letting the same number of people enter. 

“Some folks get a little stir crazy, never seeing the outdoors. Not the pilots, mind you, but the knuckle-draggers that never get to leave these metal walls? They can get a little claustrophobic after months in space. So the observation deck is available for when someone’s off-duty and just needs to stargaze. To look at something that’s nature and not man-made.”

“That makes sense,” Jared admitted. “But Jackles… these are all couples! Is this—is this a _date_?”

Yeah, Jensen kind of hadn’t mentioned that on weekends, the observation deck did seem to mostly serve that purpose. It’s not like he had much choice on when to share it with Jared before he left. Jensen just looked up at him wordlessly. He knew they might go months, or longer, without seeing each other again, and he couldn’t help the little flutter at the idea of being together, now, under the canopy of stars. Sure, they wouldn’t be alone, they couldn’t do what Jensen would really _like_ to do. And he’d never in a million parsecs admit that what usually happened on the observation deck on weekends involved cuddling…

“Because I don’t do dates,” Jared continued, straightening and rocking back on his heels a bit, putting a little space between them in the crowded corridor. 

“No!” Jensen scoffed, making a face. “Of course this isn’t a date.” After all, Jackles didn’t _date_ either. No relationships. One night stands, that’s always been his motto. 

_Or it was..._

“I just figured you might be crawling out of your skin by now, a farm boy like you, trapped in an armored warship with artificial everything, all this time.”

Jared’s shoulders untensed a little. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” He shrugged and stared at the walls in their monotonous shades of dull gray, like he was looking through them and seeing something else, far away. “I told you about my place on Tauron, didn’t I. My own piece of land. My own piece of sky. Annie—” He stopped, voice rough, and gave a tight little cough. Then added, “Annie stayed with Gram on the farm when I went out of town on ‘business trips’. I still worked the land when I was home, did everything I could to keep the place running, even if it didn’t provide enough income to support us. When Gram passed on, Annie had to go off to boarding school. But I couldn’t bring myself to sell the farm. I wanted to keep our little place on Tauron where she could come to visit on school breaks...”

“Next!” the officer at the door interrupted. A small tide of couples filed past, the next set was admitted, and Jared looked relieved to let the subject drop. 

The room held clusters of blue chairs with deep, fat cushions. More cushions were scattered on the floor for those who wanted to lie down and stare up at the stars. A ledge that ran along the bottom of the window served as ad-hoc seating for others to curl up together in the corners where the window met the armored wall.

While Jensen scouted the room for the best vantage point, Jared’s gaze was drawn directly to the view screen, and he froze in the middle of the room, mesmerized. They’d arrived just as one of the routine patrol Vipers shot past, streaking through the night sky like a falling star.

Mindful of their height blocking anyone’s view, Jensen tugged Jared away from the window and guided him to stretch out on the textured floor. Jared sank down gracefully, sprawling back on one of the pillows Jensen had snagged for them, elbows bent and hands tucked behind his neck. He must not have realized what that position did to his biceps. What that did to Jensen.

It was easy to picture Jared lying in a field of new-mown hay, a piece of straw between his teeth, in just that pose, staring up at the clouds. Tired and sweaty from the morning’s exertions...

Damn if that image wasn’t doing things to Jensen too. 

Jared turned his head, met Jensen’s steady gaze. “You’re not looking at the sky,” he pointed out.

“I get my fill of the view when I’m working,” Jensen said drily. 

“Mmm-hmmm.” Jared moved his arms back down at his sides and went back to looking at the stars. “I can’t even imagine what it would be like, flying in that. Surrounded by that, on all sides, like… like you’re wrapped in a blanket of stars.”

Jensen rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and tried to remember. “It was like that once. When I was learning to fly, at the academy. Now...”

“Now?” Jared’s voice was quiet, as if he knew that this wasn’t a conversation for others in the room to overhear.

“Now when I’m in the sky, it’s just the emptiness of dark space. I don’t even see the stars. I’m hunting. I’m looking for targets. I’m firing my weapons. I’m checking Galactica’s hull for damage. I’m watching my friends get shot down. I’m trying to make my way back before the Galactica retracts the flight pods and I crash. Or worse—I’m too far away and I watch the Galactica wink out and I’m left behind for the Cylons.”

Frak. He’d never admitted that last one out loud before. Not to anyone.

He felt Jared’s hand beside his, knuckles brushing against the back of Jensen’s. Nothing more than that. It probably wasn’t even intentional.

But he didn’t pull away.

* * *

The next day, Camp Oil Slick was deserted. Nothing left but empty cots that a lone deck hand was busy stowing away. Jensen knew all the Raptor pilots of course; he could have asked around to find out at least which ship Jared had been delivered to. But what was the point, really? So he’d worry about one particular vessel when he was supposed to be defending the whole fleet? 

Better that he not know. It was enough that Jared was out of harm’s way now, at least compared to being on a battle star. They hadn’t even really said good-bye. What were they going to be to each other, pen pals? No, they each knew what this was. A little more memorable than most one-night stands, maybe. But Jensen wasn’t the kind of guy to do relationships. Neither was Jared. And that was that.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Every day was a new crisis, and the day after the refugee camp was shut down brought disaster. One of the civilian ships, the Virgon Express, was coming alongside to tank up their water supply from Galactica’s recycling system, when an explosion rocked the ship. Every tank on the port side ruptured. Ten million jp’s, almost sixty percent of the potable water supply, vented out into space. 

Rumors flared through the Galactica like an ignited fuel line: it was sabotage. The ‘Chrome Jobs’ had advanced since the last war, Boomer claimed, and they look human, like us now. Sleeper agents hiding in the fleet.

Lieutenant Gaeta’s theory was less paranoid: the tanks had been structurally weakened by the Cylon nuclear detonation during the first attack. It had just been a matter of time until they buckled and ruptured.

Jensen hoped Gaeta was right. 

Either way, though, the immediate outcome was the same: all the vessels in the fleet were put on emergency rationing. Laundry, showers, anything non-essential—shut down. Commander Adama ordered an astronomical survey to identify any star systems within the limited jump radius of the scout ships, and all available Raptors were scheduled for recon missions to planets in those systems to take censor readings in a desperate search for H2O.

If they didn’t succeed, the Galactica would run out of water in six days. 

The civilian fleet in two days.

Yeah, Jensen had higher priorities on his mind than the fate of a certain space hooker. He volunteered to take a rotation on one of the Raptors.

* * *

In the end, it was Boomer and Crashdown, exploring the last of the star systems within range, who found a promising planet. It had five moons, and a DRADIS sweep of one of those moons lit up the console. Water!

“Celebrate all you want. But don’t head for the water coolers yet,” Apollo told the jubilant pilots assembled in the ready room. “We’re still on emergency rations until we run some tests and figure out how to get it off that moon and onto the ships.” 

There was a time Jensen would have embraced downtime: a friendly game of Triad, a cold bottle of Hawryliw, liberty on a pleasure cruiser. Now, keeping busy kept his mind off… things he couldn’t have. “What’d’ya need, Cap’n?”

“Pilots for two Raptors.” Apollo scanned the dozen pilots slouched in the chairs front of him. “Self-loading cargo.”

That meant passengers, Jensen knew. A Raptor could hold 8-10 personnel besides the pilot and ECO. No doubt they’d be ferrying the grease monkeys who’d be conducting the analysis on the surface of the moon. He raised a finger and volunteered.

* * *

Coming out of their FTL jump, Jensen flexed his hand around the joystick and peered through the canopy, scanning the bleak expanse of space, alert for any sign of the Cylons’ return. 

The sky was empty, though, black and lifeless. Behind him, the chatter of the deck crew, several voices talking at once, kept him from getting lost in the hollowness of their dark corner of the universe.

“I can’t wait to set foot on solid rock again.”

“I know. Maybe there’s a beach. You think there’s a beach? Sand like sugar… mmmmm.” 

“You ever been to the beach on Caprica? Think it’ll be like that?”

“Don’t be crazy. We wouldn’t have to wear these frakkin’ bunny suits if the environment was hospitable.”

“A girl can dream, can’t she?”

As they rounded the planet’s orbit and headed toward the moon, Jensen flicked a glance at the console readings. Temps 180 degrees below zero; atmo with lethal levels of methane and CO2. A day at the beach? Right. The grease monkeys could go exploring in their clumsy environmental gear. He’d stay inside his cozy Raptor, thank you very much, and keep powering it up at sufficient intervals to prevent it from freezing.

Besides, someone had to monitor the DRADIS for any Cylon contact. 

He landed them on the frozen moon and opened the port-side hydraulic door, staying seated as the crew tumbled out, sliding on the ice. Twenty yards away, the second Raptor hovered and then settled onto the ground, and more men and women emerged, unrecognizable in their bulky protective gear. Soon Chief had them busy mapping the terrain, shooting video, drilling core samples, analyzing liquid compositions. 

Jensen listened in on the radio, as anxious as anyone else to learn their fate. The huge subsurface ocean they’d discovered offered the best chance, but initial tests measured out at thirteen percent sodium chloride. Over the dejected silence that met that announcement, Jensen thought of all the ways he’d imagined dying. None of them were pleasant, but most of them were quick. Slowly dying of thirst… that was gonna be an ugly way to go.

Cally’s squad turned their plasma torches on the glacier and for a moment Jensen couldn’t hear the results because of the sudden high-pitched whine of radio frequency interference. And then he realized it wasn’t interference at all: it was Cally’s squeal of triumph. The melted ice was pure H2O.

* * *

He should have been exuberant. Back on Galactica’s landing bay, crew members were slapping each other on the back as they peeled out of their EVA suits. The noise level reminded him of certain parties—to be honest, they’d bordered on drunken orgies—back in his Academy days. 

But instead of joining the celebration, Jensen hung back. He unzipped his flight suit, freed his arms, and rolled the top half down so the recirculated air could dry the sweat on his shoulders. Then, leaning against the starboard wing of the Raptor, he crossed his arms and just watched. Hadn’t any of them heard what the XO had said in response to the first discouraging astrometrical reports? “Most planets are just hunks of rock or balls of gas. The galaxy’s a pretty barren and desolate place when you get right down to it.”

Pretty much exactly what they’d found today. Sure, they’d found water. They lived to be fugitives another day. But it made Jensen wonder. Was Commander Adama’s pledge to find the Lost Colony just a fairy tale to keep the masses from giving up? Was Jensen really going to spend the rest of his days trapped in a ship of one size or another, forever on duty, always on the run?

Maybe he should take a page from Jared’s notebook. _Don’t have expectations, and you won’t be disappointed. That’s the secret._ Maybe that wasn’t hopelessness. Maybe it was resignation, but it helped get you through the day.

He could try that, he guessed. The fleet needed him to be able to do that.

That train of thought had the side effect of making Jensen think the tall engineer exiting the second Raptor kind of reminded him of Jared. Not only was the guy in the bunny suit head and shoulders over everyone around him, but he gave an almost-too-late duck of the head that suggested someone who hadn’t boarded a Raptor very often. 

The man bent forward slightly to sweep his helmet off, straightened, pushed his sweaty hair away from his face, and did a double-take when he noticed he was being watched. Then he grinned, dimples flashing.

“Jared?” Jensen sputtered.

“Jackles?” Jared echoed and walked toward him, away from the rest of the deplaning crew.

“What the frak are you doing here?”

“I’m crew now, boss.”

“The frak you are.” Jensen couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. What happened to his little daydream that at least Jared was safe on a civilian ship, growing vegetables or something?

“Well, you know they didn’t have any job openings that matched my most recent employment history.” Jared moved into Jensen’s personal space with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Help me with this?” 

Jensen’s hands were already reaching for the buckles, mind picturing exactly what Jared intended—a high-priced hooker stripping, getting down to business. 

But that wasn’t Jared’s occupation, not any more. 

“I was sure they’d place you on one of the agro ships,” Jensen told him, peeling the EVA suit off Jared's shoulders.

“There were vacancies here on Galactica too.” Jared didn’t need to explain. Jensen knew exactly how many of his shipmates had been lost. If he thought about it, the new job kind of made sense. The Chief would have gotten to hand-pick replacements, and Jared had certainly had the opportunity to impress him. 

“They offered me a job and I took it,” Jared continued. “Of course, I never dreamed I’d have a shot at getting an away-team mission, especially this soon. I figured they’d have me scouring the head or something.”

“But there’s no water, so no cleaning crews...”

“Right. And for the chance to go planet-side, well, Chief made it a lottery.” Jared stepped out of the heavy protective gear, and underneath he had on the standard engineering crew orange jumpsuit. Broad through the shoulders, narrow through the hips and yet still enticingly snug, and those long, long legs. Jensen couldn’t begin to imagine how they’d found a uniform to fit him so… so...

When he raised his glance back up, he saw Jared’s hazel eyes likewise studying him. Studying… the whole package. Jensen licked his lips, and it wasn’t due to the water rationing. 

Jared lifted his hand to Jensen’s clavicle, trailed a finger down along the chain of Jensen’s dog tags. “Did I ever tell you what these do to me?”

Personally, they’d never had that effect on Jensen, but there was a first time for everything. He imagined them around Jared’s neck, slapping against those pecs… Yeah, it was definitely triggering a reaction now. Jensen darted a quick look around the landing bay. The crowds had mostly dispersed, and he realized, screw it. He didn’t care. He turned back to Jared. “When do you get yours?”

“I don't.” Jared dropped his hand. “I’m not a recruit. Not military. Civilian crew.”

“We don‘t have civilian crew on Galactica.”

“We do now. They gave me a choice on enlisting and I turned it down.”

“You did? Why? Couldn’t handle the haircut?”

“I turned it down because enlisted men can’t date officers.” Jared took a step back, and for the life of him, Jensen thought that the look on his face had changed from sly and horny to shy and tentative in a heartbeat. 

“Date?” Frak him, now Jensen’s voice was sounding shy and tentative too. “I thought you said you didn’t do dating.”

Jared shrugged, his expression open and hopeful. “That life, from before? Dating’s a bad idea when you’re a professional companion, definitely. But when we were in the observation deck… when you showed me what’s out there? I didn’t recognize a single constellation. And it hit me. That’s because it’s a whole new world now.”

“New world, new rules, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Jensen felt a burgeoning smile tug at facial muscles that had gotten out of practice. “Think they might relax the rationing a bit now that we’ve found a source of water? We could, you know, share a shower…”

Jared wrinkled his nose, sniffed, and sighed. “I wish. We’re still days away from melting that ice and bringing the H2O onboard. We’re gonna need high capacity heater expansion tanks, D-25 plasma torches, myrex hoses, centrifugal pumps…”

Jensen’s eyes danced. “You know what it does to me, when you talk dirty like that?”

“Maybe you should show me.” Jared inclined his head toward one of the repair alcoves. “One perk of being crew? I’m learning where the best maintenance closets are. In fact, there’s one just over here…”

As Jared steered them into the shadows, it occurred to Jensen that he hadn’t actually admitted that this was more than just a hook-up for him too, that he was ready to suspend his own “no dating shipmates” rule. He figured he didn’t need to put it into words, but he’d invite Jared back to the observation deck later. 

For some reason, he knew when he gazed out at the limitless sky, he wouldn’t be seeing the emptiness of dark space. It felt like the promise of something more.

~ the end ~


End file.
